Death and Honor – part 2
The memories of his people’s history passed through Chieftan Keagan al’Kon’s mind. He stood on the roof of the great hall, observing the celestial meadow above his head. A vast canvas filled with fields of light on black and bordered by the bright light of the full moon.
Yes, life here may be hard, but it will be good, he thought. A better future simply waited for the taking, a future for his people, his daughter. He breathed deep of the brisk night air and thought of his daughter. Arria was freshly past her sixteenth summer and now at the age to be courted. She was strong and independent and beautiful, like her mother.
Inevitably, as he stood contemplating the night, his thoughts were drawn to memories of his wife, his queen, and his love. Pain stabbed at his heart as he remembered her beauty. The way the morning sun would caress her body, and the color of her eyes when they first met. Then his thoughts turned heavy as he remembered how she had wasted and her eyes dulled as she died slowly. The disease that flowed from the Wastes had taken her, along with over half of their people, those many moons past. It had been seven summers and still he could feel the brush of her lips on his. He could still remember the scent of her hair and the soft feel of her skin against his as they made love.
There alone among the stars, Keagan grieved for his loss and that of his daughter Arria. He knew she missed her mother as much as he missed his wife. But his people loved strongly and fought fiercely. His bride had lived a full and joyous life and though he felt it cut short, he could not complain. One could never question the Night Lords and who, or how, they chose those that would pass on to the next life. He came out at night, to be that much closer to the Kingdom of Dreams where he believed his bride to be.
The sense of melancholy was broken suddenly as the voice of his beloved daughter gently interrupted his contemplations. “Out talking to mother again, father?” she asked kindly.
“Ah, that she would speak back my dear,” he said with sadness and longing in his voice. “But enough reminiscing,” he sighed, turning to face her. “I wallow in my own self pity when I have the clearest image of your mother’s beauty here in front of me,” he said with a smile. “Now come give your old father a kiss and lift his spirits with conversation of lighter things.”
He opened his arms to his daughter’s embrace. As she came to him, she reached up on her toes to kiss him and linked her arm through his as they walked away from the night. He smiled as he was drawn into her joyful discussion of the porter’s son Farweth trying to win her favor by showing off his riding skills, then subsequently falling to the ground and splitting his head open on a rock. These are good times, he thought as Arria took him back into the bright and warm hall.
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“But Sire, we must not march on the beast hordes! At least let us try to join with the barbarian tribes to the north!” shouted Camryn al’Noit, “Your unwillingness to compromise with these people is foolhardy at best and deadly at worst.” The slightly greasy and dark eyed man continued arguing determinedly as he scanned the gathered assembly of Maltean war chiefs, seeking approval among the many scarred and hardened faces. Little did he know the dangerous line he was walking with his words.
“And so you question the decision of your chieftain al’Noit? This is what it has come to?” Replied the deep baritone of Keagan al’Kor, not giving the weasel-like chieftain time to answer. “You have been gracious to clarify the current state of affairs to the feeble minds of your sword brothers, and for this we thank you, oh wise Camryn, Prophet of the North,” the sound of sarcasm and steadily rising ire thick in the chieftain’s voice. “We can only bow to your great experience in the field of battle, Mighty Slayer of the Seven Hills Battle, Great Blade of Gradith Azul,” roared Keagan as he stood and stalked toward Camryn. The chieftain’s hand slid dangerously onto the hilt of the knife at his waist, “Oh, but wait Lord al’Noit, that man who slayed the hoards at Seven Hills was I!” he shouted. “It is I who has led this assembled group of brave men into battle time and again for the good of our people! And across the great northern seas to find a new home!” Keagan al’Kon had come to stand next to the smaller man, causing the lesser lord to unknowingly shy away from the angry Chief.
Sputtering in a mix of embarrassment, anger, and fear, al’Noit replied desperately, “Sire, I only seek to offer another opinion than that of the groveling men who give you council that only seek their own advancement.”
“Groveling men that give me council!” Shouted Keagan as he swung his large fist into al’Noit’s face, blood spraying from the lesser lord’s now broken nose as he was forcefully flung from his seat by the punch. Keagan towered over the smaller man that lay draped across the long table that consumed most of the Great Hall’s space. Leaning deep into the sniveling man’s face, Keagan slid his knife from its sheath and touched the blade to Camryn’s face.
“I seek council from those who have proven themselves to be of worth on the field of battle by deed or by might, and wise in council as proven by time and trial. To think that any Maltean could so insult the honor of his brothers sickens me, as does your impudence to think that you could call your ruler a fool!” the Chieftain’s voice dropped to a dangerous and harsh rasp.
Keagan slowly began to drag the blade across Camryn’s cheek with increasing pressure. As the greasy man tried to retreat from the blade, men from around the table jumped up and pinned him to the table. “I will not stand for cowards and worm tongued disturbers of the peace to dwell within my hall.” Keagan spoke with authority and the clear full voice of a ruler passing absolute judgment.
“With that I hereby banish you Camryn al’Noit, child of the North, from Gradith Azul to wander the lands and reclaim your honor in death.” As he ended the ancient ritual of banishment of his people, Keagan’s blade lifted from slicing its way down the displaced man’s cheeks. “Let these scars tell all of how you betrayed your people. Let them remind you of your cowardice and give you cause to die. Now leave us. Fools and usurpers have no place among true men.”
From her position at the right of the chieftain’s throne, Aria filled the traditional seat of the Chieftess. The wives of Maltean warlords often serve as a voice of wisdom and temperance to the rulers. In uncommon fashion Keagan al’Kon had three years previous presented the seat to his daughter and had been counseling with her concerning matters of the country’s rule. And even when faced with such harsh judgments as this, Aria responded as a true daughter of Tor’Maltea. Trained in combat since she could walk as though she were the Chieftains eldest son and the most proficient with the bow among all the women who are trained in its art, she sat immobile and approving with her hard gaze.
On the Chieftain’s command the warriors surrounding Camryn released him. The shamed warrior immediately ran from the room holding his bleeding face. “Now back to the concern at hand,” said Keagan as he turned and strode back to the head of the long table, dismissing the recent event without a word.
Leaning over the table on his fists the Chieftain scanned his eyes past each of his warlords, taking them and their histories with him in. Hanz, the smith turned warrior when his family was killed in a barbarian raid shortly after his people had arrived on this land; Caulin and Maulin, twins who fought with two short blades each and had given rise to rumors on the battlefield that they actually possessed some kind of magic, given their amazing ability to seem to be in all places at once.
His eyes moved to Reaggin, the old warrior that had trained Keagan himself and hundreds of other Maltean warriors. The grizzled man sat patiently puffing smoke rings into the air from his pipe as he waited for the inevitable result of the meeting to be announced. Standing behind him, his two protégé, Luke and Yedela, the only woman in attendance beside Keagan’s beloved daughter, stood at sharp attention. The eagerness and excitement of youth tempered by Reaggin’s strict training, showed clearly on their faces.
Off to the side of the table Illoim, the leader of the Masked Riderum, the Tor’Maltean hooded shadow warriors, leaned on the pillars supporting the high roof of the hall, melting into the thin shadow it cast. The Thunder Lance, the elite mounted light cavalry his people were known for, their command squad sat in their oiled and polished armor, backs straight and heads high; proud as only men who had accomplished such great feats on the field of war can. Unther, the captain; Maurs, lieutenant and second in command; and Juergan the standard bearer, watched silently.
Now there were eleven in all including himself, Keagan thought. Eleven, the holy number of the earth god. Eleven leaders to drive out the beastmen and barbarian filth that had plagued his people from the moment they had settle here in this new land. This was a good sign.
“Blood will be spilled as an offering to the gods before the next moon.” Keagan said to the rousing cheers of his assembled warlords and the knowing look of his mentor Reaggin. “Our land will be free once and for all from the oppression of these foul carcasses passing as the living. Soon they will take their rightful place in the Underworld, and leave our land.” The gathered men, as one, raised tankards and bowls full of mead and toasted to victory and glorious death.
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